


Heaven Is A Place On Route 36.

by morwrach



Series: Val's [1]
Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Billy Hargrove's Secret Interests, Canon-Divergent Post-Season 2, Developing Relationship, First Kiss, Hopeful Ending, Idiots in Love, Late Night Conversations, Light Angst, M/M, Setting: Roadside Diner
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-10
Updated: 2019-06-10
Packaged: 2020-04-23 02:03:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19141360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morwrach/pseuds/morwrach
Summary: When choosing a place to hide from the world, it’s a good idea to opt for somewhere with good fries. Steve just wishes he’d known it was Billy Hargrove’s hangout before he drove out here.





	Heaven Is A Place On Route 36.

June 1985. Hawkins, Indiana.

Turns out you can get sick of watching Family Ties _._ Steve switches off the television as Skippy confesses his unrequited feelings for Mallory and throws the remote control down on the sofa. The blank screen crackles with static, and birds chirp outside the patio door. Early evening sunlight glints off the surface of the pool. It’s a Friday night, and he’s home alone. Again. His parents are out at some fancy company dinner, and the evening stretches out in front of him, silent and uneventful. He could probably find a party to go to, but the thought doesn’t appeal. Since the events of last Fall, it feels like the superficial surface of the world has been peeled back. The prospect of vapid conversation, sugary alcohol, and meaningless fumbling in a spare bedroom bores him. It wouldn’t be any fun without Nancy anyway. Wandering to the kitchen, he considers radioing Dustin, before rationalising that doing so would mean admitting that his best friend is a thirteen year old nerd.

His parents have left money for dinner on the counter as usual, wedged under the mixer. He could drive over to the mall and get a meal and a dessert at the food court and still have change left over, but then he’d probably run into someone from school. He half-heartedly opens the fridge and stares in. He could make a meal, but instead Steve opts for fries. Not just any fries, but specific delicious, extra-crispy, super-greasy ‘try not to think about what they’re cooked in’ fries which melt in the mouth and feature heavily in his daydreams. Fries served in one place – Val’s Roadside Diner on Route 36.

Val’s was built in the 1950s as the first stage of a truck stop trio of diner, gas station, and convenience store, but only Val’s was ever finished. It sits alone on an empty lot under a big open sky and hasn’t changed its menu or its décor much since the ‘50s. Steve used to take girls on dates to Val’s – it’s far enough from Hawkins that they’d never run into parents or exes, and the nostalgic pastel interior felt kinda romantic. He went for the privacy but stayed for the fries, and then kept coming back for them. The drive is a little bit too long, farther than he should be venturing considering he has to come back tonight, but - fuck it. The weather’s good, he has a new cassette to listen to…and there’s no-one around to judge him.

A weight lifts as he drives past the ‘Leaving Hawkins’ sign. It’s as if by crossing over the invisible boundaries of the town he’s leaving all his troubles behind. They cycle past, melting away yard by yard: Mind Flayer, demo dogs, Hawkins Lab, his failing grades and his parents’ concerned faces as they ask about college, the pang he still feels when he looks at Nancy and Jonathan together, the hot, urgent, confusing desire he feels for Billy Hargrove which just won’t fucking die however much he stamps on it or tries to rationalise it away…For tonight he’s just a normal teenager, albeit a lonely one. It’s a good kind of loneliness though, the kind of separation from everything which feels like freedom, if he doesn’t think about it too hard.

As Steve hits the highway, a mild summer breeze blows through the rolled down car window. Bobbing his head and drumming his fingers against the wheel time to Hall & Oates, he can almost forget that it’s loneliness that pushed him out here in the first place.

 

***

 

“There’s some space at the back if you don’t mind sharing,” the waitress, whose badge says ‘Shelly’ in loopy writing, says hopefully.

Steve does mind sharing actually, but he minds driving all the way back home more. He came here for Val’s signature fries, and he’s not leaving without them. It’ll probably clear out in an hour or so as families go home to catch Dallas and the couples go neck at the movies. _Fuck,_ it’s been so long since anyone’s kissed him.

Shelly cheerily guides him past tables packed with families and hand-holding couples to the farthest booth from the door before excusing herself, and – _shit._ Sitting there, devouring a plate of ham and eggs, is Billy Hargrove. He looks up, and at the sight of Steve his enquiring expression quickly shifts to a scowl.

“What the hell you doin’ here, Harrington?” he asks, cocking one eyebrow. “You followin’ me?”

“Why would I be following you?” Steve snaps.

Billy shrugs, as if people following him around is a common occurrence. Like he’s famous, not just an infuriatingly good-looking high school basketball champion. What an asswipe. Billy is still looking at him expectantly, so he affects a carefree “I just felt like a drive.” before adding “What are you doing out here?”

“Just felt like a drive,” Billy says, corner of his lips curling into a smile. 

_Ugh._

Steve can see the waitress looking across, a concerned wrinkle between her eyebrows.

“Can I sit?” he asks impatiently, gesturing to the free seats.

“It’s a free country!” Billy says obnoxiously, turning his attention back to his plate and completely ignoring Steve.

He slips into the opposite side of the booth, before shouldering out of his jacket and dumping it on the seat next to him. He could leave. He really should leave, except that as soon as he’d seen Hargrove, it’d become a war of attrition. He’s not gonna be the one to give up first.

He picks up the menu and pretends to read, studying Billy out of the corner of his eye. His hair falls in the same curls, and his usual earring, a tiny dagger, dangles amongst them; but he’s swapped his typical tight, mostly unbuttoned shirts for a grey sweatshirt with the sleeves cropped short. The long-sleeved white t-shirt he’s wearing underneath looks old, worn soft with wear. His usual tension seems to have gone from him, and in its wake he seems relaxed. It’s weird that he’s so at ease at Val’s, with its pastel décor and doo-wop melodies playing from the jukebox. Being chill looks good on him, softens his features; makes his eyes look bluer than ever. The sweatshirt looks really, really good on him too. Steve hates himself for thinking it, even as he’s watching the movement of Billy’s shoulder muscles under the fabric. He could kick himself. He could kick Billy from here too.

It's strange being within touching distance again. Since he apologised for beating him up, Steve has barely seen him. Billy's not been avoiding him, but he's been giving him such a wide berth that it pretty much amounts to the same thing. In basketball practice he's been bullying someone else or focused on the game and not on Steve. He no longer looks to Steve after performing some dumbass trick with the ball or shoulders him to the ground. The shoves and jibes in the showers have evaporated like steam. He sees Billy regularly enough when he’s waiting to collect Dustin from whatever The Party have been doing. He always greets Steve with a curt, impersonal jerk of the head before lighting up a cigarette and leaning against his car at a safe distance, smoking it down to the filter whilst watching him with an intensity that's both unnerving and arousing. He’s probably trying to be intimidating. It’s only partially working. 

Shelly interrupts his thoughts by appearing with her perpetually cheery smile and poised pen and pad of paper. Steve orders his fries and a vanilla soda, and politely declines her suggestion of pie. He requires unsullied taste buds to appreciate the unrivalled perfection of Val’s signature fries.

Shelly lingers a moment after she jots down Steve’s order. She tilts her head slightly, before saying “More coffee, Billy?”

Billy turns that smile on her, the one he reserves for charming girls. The one he’s never turned on Steve. He’s all bright, flirty eyes and wide, easy smile as he replies “Thanks, Shelly. You’re a peach.”

Steve rolls his eyes, entirely for his own benefit. Despite himself, he feels jealous and irritated. Jealous that Billy would never talk to him with that smooth voice, with those intent eyes, and irritated by feeling jealous at all. Weird, stupid crush. Weird, stupid Steve.

As he waits for his fries, he gazes out of the window at the empty fields and wide open sky, painted in orangey-pinks by the sunset. The clouds look almost purple, their edges lit golden with the last of the light. The grasses of the field blow gently in the wind, one continuous, undulating Mexican wave. It’s times like this that Indiana seems beautiful. He wonders why he doesn’t come out here more often. 

Billy finishes his plate of food and pushes it away with one finger, before turning slightly and rifling in the pocket of his discarded denim jacket. Steve expects him to pull out a packet of cigarettes, but to his surprise, he retrieves a paperback book. He lets his head fall back, props his feet obnoxiously on the opposite seat, narrowly missing Steve’s jacket, and begins reading. “You…read?” Steve hears himself say out loud.

Billy turns, expression mock-incredulous. “What? Can’t you?”

Steve supposes he walked into that one. Billy returns to his book, seemingly more unimpressed with Steve’s lack of a retort than he was with his initial comment. If Steve squints, he can read the back cover: “Six books made Stephen King the world’s living foremost horror writer. Firestarter will make him a household name.” _Horror. Figures._ He looks at Billy again. A stray curl falls across his forehead, but he’s absorbed in the story and doesn’t seem to notice. A little smile plays across his lips as he reaches an amusing sentence, and Steve feels butterflies flutter in his stomach. It’s only when Shelly appears with his soda in one manicured hand and the coffee jug in the other that he realises he’s been staring.

 

****

 

Thankfully Steve’s fries arrive shortly afterwards, saving him from any more troubling thoughts about Hargrove, or worse, being caught gazing at him. He’d like to avoid making any more memories involving Billy’s fists and his face. He digs in with enthusiasm and sighs happily. Val’s fries never disappoint. They’re crispy, greasy, and tangled together in the basket, giving him the perfect excuse to eat clumps of them in oversized mouthfuls.

Basking in grease interspersed with sips of soda, Steve can forget Billy’s there, until he suddenly huffs with exasperation and slams his book face down next to his half-finished cup of coffee.

Steve flinches, swallowing his half-chewed lump of fries before looking over to find Billy glaring at him, all trace of his previous calm gone.

“You can cut it out now, asshole” he says, moodily.

“Huh?”

“Don’t bullshit me, Harrington. I know what you’re doing.” His voice is just a bit too loud over the music, and Steve shifts uncomfortably in his seat.

“I’m not doing anything!” Steve replies, rankled.

Billy gives him an incredulous look, folding his arms. Steve turns back to his fries, picking up his fork before Billy leans over and swipes the basket away from him.

Steve jerks around. “What the fuck is your problem?”

“My problem –“ Billy says forcefully, “is you sitting there moaning like you’re getting your dick sucked.”

Steve sits back, self-conscious and uncomfortable. He wasn’t making weird noises, was he? WAS HE? 

“Either these are the best fries ever, or you haven’t got any for a long time.” Billy’s teasing grin becomes feral at the sight of Steve flushing, “Oh, I see... King Steve’s having trouble getting chicks now he hangs around with middle schoolers…”

“Would you get off my back? Steve snaps. He can feel how red his face is, and he hates himself for it.

“Why are you putting this shit into your body anyway?” Billy continues, jostling the basket in his hand. “Ham and eggs, now that’s a meal for building muscle…”

“Look man,” Steve huffs, arms crossed unhappily over his chest. “I’m not happy to see you either, alright – “

“I never said I wasn’t pleased to see you.” Billy interrupts quietly. When Steve says nothing, he adds “Just, y’know, surprised. Never seen you here before.”

_What the fuck? Is this slice of the American Dream Billy’s hangout? If Steve had considered where Billy spent his downtime, it would’ve been places far grodier than this…and they wouldn’t have played Buddy Holly._

“I wouldn’t have thought this was your scene,”

“It has its charms,” Billy says, as Shelly refills his coffee in passing.

A moment passes. Billy returns Steve’s fries in a show of reconciliation, but he doesn’t pick up his book again.

“What are you really doing out here?” he asks, drinking some of Steve’s soda and smirking when he frowns.

“Don’t you ever take no for an answer? Alright, fine – but you first.”

If he’s gonna tell Hargrove about being a friendless loser, he’s going to at least get some answers first.

“I’m giving Max an alibi so she can go hang out with Lucas Sinclair” Billy says casually, taking a sip of coffee and looking out of the window at the darkening sky.

Steve frowns. “Who’s the alibi for?”

“Our old man.” Billy turns and shoots him a look which clearly says _Don’t push it._

_…huh._

“I’m waiting.”

Steve sighs. Billy’s been honest with him. He supposes he should return the favour.

“I’m escaping Hawkins for one night because it’s suffocating me.”

“What have you got to run away from, rich kid like you?” Billy says, sneeringly “Big house, loaded parents…”

_Oh, that’s right. He’s an asshole. Steve had almost forgotten._

“Oh gee, I don’t know,” he replies, more loudly than he probably should. “Let’s see! I lost my reputation, I lost my friends, Nancy Wheeler broke my fucking heart, I was nearly killed babysitting some idiot kids, and on top of it all…” he trails off, conscious of where this rant is going.

“… a big portal to the underdark opened, unleashing a swarm of hell hounds and an ithilid mindflayer?” Billy prompts, with a smug grin.

Steve blanches, tries to steady his nerves. “Sounds like you’ve been watching too many horror movies.” 

“Cool it man,” Billy says, “Max told me. Drew me some pictures too. Didn’t realise she was artistic.”

“She told you?”

“Didn’t I just say that? Yeah, she thought I might know stuff, from playing D&D as a kid.”

“You play Dungeons and Dragons?!” Steve splutters. This night just keeps getting weirder.

“Tough guys can play D&D too.” Billy retorts, defensively.

Steve’s pretty sure it’s weak kids who play D&D in order to *feel*tough, but he doesn’t say anything. He’s enjoying sitting here chatting with Hargrove, and not having the shit kicked out of him. 

“Any bright ideas then, Tough Guy?”

Billy talks in a mix of sports and Dungeons & Dragons analogies that make a lot more sense than the kids do half the time. He continues to refer to ‘The Upside Down’ as ‘the underdark’ despite Steve repeatedly correcting him. A couple years ago, he would’ve found it lame, but now it seems endearing. He’s blaming Dustin. That kid has a lot to answer for.

It’s easy to imagine Billy fighting demo-dogs – the flashy way he’d fight, the intent, focused look he’d get in his eyes, the muscles of his arms as he landed a hit. The delighted, obnoxious way he’d whoop and cheer his own success. Steve swallows hard, suddenly intensely self-conscious.

“Have you tried fire?” Billy asks, breaking through Steve’s daydreams. He carries on talking without waiting for an answer. “Ithilids hate heat. I’d totally flamethrower the shit out of that nest. Lighter, Aqua Net, BOOM!”

He smacks the sweetener packets flying with a look of demented victory. Steve hates that he finds it hot.

”What you really need is a kid like Charlie McGee,” Billy continues, picking up his copy of Firestarter and shaking it emphatically. “Someone who could like, fry the alien dogs with their mind!”

“Sounds like we could do with you,” Steve says, without thinking.

Billy smiles at him then – a big, genuine smile that makes the sides of his eyes crinkle. God, he’s gorgeous. If Steve were standing right now he’d probably be weak at the knees.

“What d’you say, Harrington?” Billy says, kicking him hard under the table. “Can I join your monster hunting squad?”

 _No fucking way_ , is what Steve should be saying. They’re not friends. They’re not anything. He almost beat him to death, and the kids are terrified of him even if he’s being nicer to Max now; but there’s a hopefulness in Billy’s eyes that’s clenching at Steve’s heart. They’re only playing around anyway.

“Yeah, sure. We can drive across the Midwest defeating small town evil with hairspray and a baseball bat.”

Billy practically beams at him.

“You’re on. I’m picking the tunes though. Not gonna listen to your shitty, girly music.”

Steve rolls his eyes, huffing.

“You’re cute when you’re annoyed,” Billy says, and it almost doesn’t sound like a joke.

 

***

 

Now that Steve knows Billy reads cheap horror novels in his spare time and has in-depth knowledge of monster manuals, it’s impossible to find him as intimidating as he once did. Even concentrating on the memories of his bruises, it’s hard to square the Billy who beat the living shit out of him with the Billy opposite him, absentmindedly drumming his fingers against the table in time with Johnny Cash. His gaze rests on Steve, relaxed and appreciative. If it weren’t for his complete inability to say anything positive about Indiana, Steve could almost believe a completely different person is wearing Billy’s skin.

Aside from the sneaking suspicion that he might be stuck in an episode of The Twilight Zone, it’s surprisingly comfortable, sitting here, chatting shit with Billy. In the space of a few hours, Steve learns more about him than he did from the preceding half a year. In short, that he has read every single novel Stephen King’s written, and especially likes one with a possessed car which sounds fucking ridiculous, that his eyes light up when he talks about playing beach volleyball back home, and that he can lift 100lbs without breaking a sweat. The more this night goes on, the more feelings are creeping into his hard on for Hargrove. It’s unsettling in the extreme.

The light changes, and with it, the clientele. Families and couples are slowly replaced by truckers and insomniacs, and Billy’s turning his attention to his watch. Apprehensive disappointment lurches in Steve’s stomach. He refrains from checking the time; he already knows he’s stayed out too late. He should be paying up and heading home already, but a small part of him is desperate to prolong whatever this is. It feels like if he and Billy just keep talking they can hold back tomorrow indefinitely, and along with it parental expectation and college applications and supernatural horrors and heartache. 

When Billy reaches for his jacket, Steve finds himself sharing something he hasn’t told anyone, as if offering up something vulnerable will entreat him to stay.

“I’m just so tired. I never thought I’d be this tired at eighteen,” he sighs, voice barely above a whisper.

He braces himself for derision, but the jibe never comes. Instead Billy lets go of his jacket and settles back against the seat, pushing a hand through his curls.

“Yeah man, what the hell’s with that?” he says, voice as weary as Steve’s own, “One year in this shithole has aged me like ten California years…

He looks at Steve with soft, tired eyes, completely different from any way he’s looked at him before. His knee gently nudges Steve’s own under the table, without any pretence of provocation. A little smile tugs at Billy’s mouth when Steve nudges back, and he keeps on looking, head slightly tilted to one side. Smokey Robinson croons quietly from the jukebox, _you really got a hold on me._ A thought passes through Steve’s mind, quiet but certain - _Yeah, I really like guys_.

The moment – is it a moment? Whatever the fuck it is – is ruined a moment later by the arrival of a short, stocky woman with an expression which could sharpen knives, the eponymous Val of Val’s Diner.

“Alright, pay up and take your mutual masturbation session somewhere else boys.”

"What?” Steve splutters “We're not - it's not like that-"

"And there's me thinking you liked to watch, Valerie" Billy says, palming his denim-covered crotch.

“Sorry to break your teeny tiny heart, William” Val replies, “but you and your friend here are two sets of tits short of my idea of a good time. Now, beat it.”

Steve thinks Billy will say something after Val’s turned on her heel, but he doesn’t refute or confirm her statements. Instead they gather their jackets and possessions in comfortable silence. Steve necks the end of his soda, crinkling his nose when the fizz goes to his head, and Billy laughs, but not mean-spiritedly. Ever the gentleman, he pointedly leaves Steve to cover both their meals, shouldering on his jacket and stuffing his book back into a pocket.

As they make their way out, Steve realises they are the only people left. No wonder Val wanted them gone. When they reach the front, Billy pauses at the jukebox, rummaging for quarters in his pocket before feeding them into the slot.

“This one’s for you, Val!” he calls out, before pressing a button triumphantly.

Elvis Presley blares out of the speakers: _Well a hard-hearted woman, a soft-hearted man, been the cause of trouble ever since the world began…oh yeah…_

Billy grins wolfishly.

“See you on Sunday, shitstain!” Val shouts from the back, as Steve and Billy leave with a slam of the door.

 

***

 

The moment they’re outside in the cold night air, it’s like the spell that’s fallen over them all evening has broken. The tension is back in Billy’s shoulders, and in the hard line of his jaw. Steve tries for light conversation.

“So, do you work here, or –“

Billy cuts him off, voice hard and impatient. “If you tell anyone I used to play D&D, you’re dead meat.” 

“Whoa, relax Tough Guy,” Steve deadpans, “I’m not about to try to convince anyone you’re more than a good looking asshole.”

Billy goes very quiet then, and very still. He gives Steve a long look with blank, unreadable eyes; eyes that he last saw just after he told Billy to get out of the Byers’ house, before he’d swung for Steve’s face. Billy’s shaking. Steve doesn’t know what he’s done to make him angry this time, but as Billy glances around, checking for onlookers, he thinks _this is it._ Billy’s gonna beat him to a pulp in the parking lot of this shitty diner at the asshole of the earth, and he’s gonna bleed out before anyone even notices he’s gone. His heart’s about to hammer out of his chest.

It happens just like before. Billy grabs him roughly by the shoulders and lifts him off his feet, but instead of throwing him to the ground, he shoves Steve hard against the side of his car and his back throbs with the force of it. When the grip on his jacket loosens Steve braces himself for the punch, but it never comes. With an unhappy, desperate look, Billy surges forward and kisses him, hard and close-mouthed. It takes Steve’s brain a few seconds to register that _yes, this is really happening,_ and _Billy’s lips are surprisingly soft_ , and that he should really, really be kissing back. Billy makes a noise that’s half-moan, half-sigh when Steve parts his lips, like he didn’t dare hope he would reciprocate; and then they’re kissing, and it’s everything Steve secretly dreamed it might be. It’s too forceful in its eagerness, too sloppy in its enthusiasm; a collision of noses and front teeth and misplaced hands, but all Steve can think is that he could kiss Billy like this all night, until sunrise colours the parking lot in pinks and oranges. He wants to put his mouth on Billy’s jawline, he wants to put his hands under Billy’s sweatshirt. He wants and wants and wants, but all too soon, Billy’s letting go, and Steve’s stumbling back against his car door, flushed and breathless.

Billy backs off with his hands raised defensively and his brow furrowed, but no words come. He looks as wrecked as Steve feels.

“It’s cool man, “ Steve manages. His words feel inadequate, wrong, too casual - 

Billy reaches out to grab Steve’s jacket, more gently this time, and draws him slowly but surely back towards him. He stops when there’s only a couple of inches between their mouths, and Steve can feel his faltering breath against his lips. He knows what this is – it’s Billy giving him an out, saying “you can still laugh this off.” His loose grip on Steve whispers “you can still push me away and leave with your reputation intact.” The rhythmic clunk of the rotating sign shudders to a halt. In its wake the parking lot is completely quiet, and Steve feels like the world has stopped for this one moment. He meets Billy’s eyes, and finds them uncertain, ashamed, longing. He looks away as Steve slides his hand along his jaw, thumb stroking over his cheekbone. and fingertips just touching the soft, skin-warmed hair at the back of his neck.

“Hey,” Steve says softly when Billy’s eyes flit back to his, before leaning in and kissing him; slowly, deliberately, trying to convey with his lips all the things he can’t say out loud, like _I’ve wanted to kiss you for so long_ , and _Please, please let me get to know you._

To his surprise, Billy pulls him into his arms as their kiss ends. Steve hugs back, a smile tugging at his lips. He would never have imagined Billy could be so affectionate, even if his hold is more sports tackle than romantic embrace. He can feel Billy’s chest heaving against his, warm and solid, and closer than they’ve ever been before. It’s impossible to suppress a shiver when Billy puts his lips against his ear. In a low, smooth voice he says, “You’re a really good kisser Harrington” before giving Steve’s ear a big, wet lick and adding “…but I’m better.” He laughs when Steve pushes him away, wiping disgustedly at his ear, but when he looks up there’s no malice in Billy's eyes, only warm amusement.

They stand there in silence, neither wanting to leave. Billy glances across to the Camaro, parked on the other side of the lot, bodywork glinting in the moonlight. Steve looks down at the tarmac, picks at a thread of his jacket.

“Sundays,” Billy says abruptly.

“Hm?”

“That’s when I come here, Sunday nights” Billy says casually, “Y’know, if you want to talk ‘bout monsters or whatever.” He rubs the back of his neck self-consciously.

“You realise I don’t have any say in who gets to join Dustin’s D&D campaign, right?”

“Fine. Don’t come. I don’t care.”

“Yeah, yeah. You can’t stand me. I’ll be there, okay.”

Billy breaks into a smile.

“Don’t bring anyone,” he says, walking backwards away from Steve “I can only put up with one nerd at a time.”

“You’re an asshole.”

“A _good-looking_ asshole,” Billy shouts over his shoulder, voice slightly raised.

He’s farther off now, almost at his car door, and the night is fading away, one step at a time. There’s still a little light left, enough to see Billy’s face as he turns and looks at Steve, his bright, amused eyes and unguarded smile. There’s still a little time left, enough to listen to the second side of the cassette as he drives back into Hawkins, relieved that this whole weird, wonderful night doesn’t pop like bubble-gum once he passes over the invisible boundaries of the town.

Lying back on his bed, too awake to sleep, he replays Billy’s kisses, and Billy’s smile, and Billy demonstrating a volleyball dunk, and Billy’s voice, softer in his remembering, saying “You’re a really good kisser Harrington.”

Out on the highway, Val’s diner sits under a big open sky full of stars, a pastel and chrome oasis away from everyday life. It serves the best fries in all of Indiana, and there’s always a free seat – unless you’re after the farthest booth from the door, which will be occupied this Sunday night, and every Sunday night for the rest of the summer.

**Author's Note:**

> So, Family Ties was shown on Thursday nights in 1985, but I’ve cheated and scheduled it on a Friday because I love Michael J Fox. Whilst driving, Steve is listening to Hall & Oates’ iconic album ‘Big Bam Boom’ which came out in October 1984 and is full of back to back bops. I imagine Val to be played by Alex Bornstein, as she is in Marvellous Mrs Maisel. 
> 
> Thanks to my dear friend gothyringwald for her encouragement & cheerleading, and to craftnarok 💖, the Steve to my Dustin, for living in the Val's universe with me, and giving excited feedback to all my snippets.
> 
> I can be found on tumblr [ @nettlekettle!](http://nettlekettle.tumblr.com/) Feel very welcome to say hi! I've learnt a lot of eighties slang recently and I need more excuses to use it.


End file.
